The Depth of a Man
by Cryptix
Summary: Holmes may be the greatest brain in London, but sometimes, the truth is so preposterous as to pass him right by... even when it's sharing his very apartments. Two-shot.
1. Action

**Part One: Action**

_Thanks to Adidasandpie, my lovely beta._

_**Warnings:** Some violence._

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Sherlock Holmes always prided himself on the skills of observation and deduction with which he plied his trade. So great was that skill and so often were his conclusions correct that he had reason to build up a great deal of ego. That, combined with the natural hot-headedness of youth, had made him quite insufferable a young man.

He remembered quite vividly the day that all crashed down, when he learned that the world was a far more complex matter than even he had ever dreamt.

It had not been long since he had engaged his rooms in Baker Street with the doctor - a year, at most, but a surprisingly pleasant one. Though the man was still in recovery and mayhaps would never regain full maneuverability in his leg and shoulder, he had proved such a benefit in the case of the poisoned mormons that Holmes had decided to invite him along on another, and then again, until by the end of that year it had become second nature for Doctor Watson to accompany him. There was some peculiar utility about the doctor - it was easier to think with him around, harder to fall into a black mood, and occasionally his misguided musings were exactly what Holmes needed to get on the right track. When he was in a poetical mood, Holmes would reflect that Watson was like a body of water: on the surface a far from remarkable gentleman, a crippled ex-military surgeon with an open face, entirely lacking in exciting hobbies or flaws; but once those superficies had been breached, the depths discovered beneath seemed endless.

They had been engaged these last few days helping the Yard, more specifically Lestrade, with a case that presented those peculiar qualities that piqued Holmes' interest. This one was a robbery at first glance, but had culminated in the violent beheading of the shop owner, a strange sentence for a man who seemed to have no enemies. Holmes was already buzzing with the hardly-contained excitement of a case drawn close to the finish. He had not yet divulged the details of his discoveries nor his plan, as was his way, but rather had bundled the doctor and Lestrade into a four-wheeler at dusk with naught but an enigmatical remark about strength in numbers. He had, however, ensured that both his companions were armed.

The cab trundled over cobblestone streets. Lestrade rubbed his hands together and thought wistfully of the gloves that lay forgotten on the edge of his desk. "Really, mister Holmes," he protested, "this is highly unusual. Will you not at least tell us our destination?"

"Rotherhithe Wharf," Holmes said, and would say no more.

Lestrade let out a long-suffering sigh and cast a look at the doctor. How on earth the man had shared rooms with Holmes so long without attempting to strangle him in his sleep was beyond the Inspector's understanding. Watson caught his look and returned a sheepish half-smile, shrugging minutely.

It was well into night by the time their cab drew to a stop, with a wet breeze flowing into the open compartment and carrying to them the distinctive scent of the wharf - wet wood, tar, rotting fish, all undercut by the constant indescribable stench of the river. Beyond the buildings could be heard the gentle susurration of water against the dock. The streetlamp overhead sputtered dangerously, its halo hardly illuminating anything but its own post. It was as singularly unpleasant a scene as only the docks in the dead of night could conjure.

The atmosphere did nothing to dampen Holmes' energy. He debarked first with a leap, giving his long limbs a leisurely stretch before he dealt with the cabbie. Lestrade, in contrast, was drawn up so tense as to shrink his already small stature a full inch. He did not doubt Holmes' ability to find the criminal - oh, no, Holmes had proven himself time and again on that front - but he did rather doubt the amateur's confidence that the three of them could take this man. It was not just any man that could behead another in a single clean swipe and leave steady as a rock. Watson climbed out after the Inspector, alert eyes sweeping over the area, but besides his absent fingering of the revolver in his pocket he showed little sign of tension.

This changed as they followed Holmes down the wharf. It was a subtle shift, a little drawing up of the shoulders, a tightening of his expression. Holmes, forging eagerly on ahead, did not notice, and Lestrade was too busy jumping at shadows. Then they came to a tight passage between a pair of crumbling buildings, and Watson stopped halfway through with a strangled gasp, clutching a hand to his stomach.

"Holmes, hold on!" Lestrade hissed into the darkness where the amateur had all but disappeared. "Are you alright, Doctor?"

"Fine. I am fine. Just a fit, it's - it's this atmosphere."

Holmes reappeared, arm snaking past Lestrade in the narrow enclosure to grip Watson's shoulder. "Can you continue?"

"It will pass in a moment," Watson assured them both. "Don't let me slow you down, I will - I'll catch up as soon as it passes."

Holmes's brow clouded. "If it's something serious-"

"Holmes, I am the doctor here, and I tell you it'll pass in a moment. Go solve your case."

Holmes did not seem quite convinced, but he nodded all the same, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "To the mouth of the alley, right and then left, you'll see it. Approach quietly." His eyes sparkled when he added, "we shall try to save a little of him for you. Shall we, Lestrade?"

"Holmes?" Watson said.

The distinctly concerned tone made Holmes turn back. "Yes, doctor?"

"...Be careful."

Holmes' brow quirked, but he nodded, before gesturing Lestrade away after him. Watson watched until long after the night shadows had swallowed them.

The two arrived minutes later in a small, open plaza, a back-yard flanked on three sides by buildings and the fourth by a short rough-hewn wall that marked the edge of the wharf. The only light came from the stars of the unusually clear sky above, as Holmes refused to light the lantern he had brought with him. A store of crates and barrels had accumulated against the wall farthest from the wharf, and it was behind them that Holmes and his less-than-content companion settled in to wait.

They did not have to wait long. Light spilled down the corridor between wharf-edge and warehouse, the unsteady luminance of a lantern held in a nervous man's hands. Their quarry rounded the corner, eyes raking the yard. He was medium-size and strongly-built, dressed in workman's clothes, with thick black hair and sun-dark skin that shone with sweat in the lantern-light.

"He's smaller than I expected," Holmes breathed at Lestrade's shoulder. "Stay here a moment, but do ready your pistol."

Holmes waited until the man had approached the boxes to emerge, gracefully springing onto one of the barrels and sitting as though it was the most natural thing in the world that he be there. The man with the lantern gave a start.

"Gah! Don't sneak up on a man like that! Y-ye're the one what sent me that note, are you?"

"I am. And thank you for arriving in such a timely fashion, Mr. Josiah Debtford."

The man paled. "You - how do ya - what is the meanin' of this, sir?"

"The meaning? I should have thought that would be obvious. The meaning of this is the arrest of the murderer of one Abraham Trumbull, of Mulvihill and Trumbull on the East Side. Ah! Thank you, Lestrade, you do your position credit."

The man had paled at Holmes' accusations and made to run, only to find Lestrade had darted in behind him and had his revolver leveled. "You just stay right there, mister," the small official said. "Resisting arrest will only make things worse for you."

"Then again," Holmes commented thoughtfully, "It'd be difficult to make your situation much worse. The way the evidence currently falls, you're destined for the rope - though, of course, you'll likely get a more lenient sentence if you turn in your compatriot."

Lestrade started and shot a glare at Holmes. Last he'd heard, there had only been one man at the scene, so what was this about a compatriot?

If it was possible, Debtford paled even further, but to his credit his expression turned stony. "I'm sure I dun't know what ye mean, sir. Wasn't no one but me."

Holmes laughed dryly. "It's no use prevaricating at this juncture, good sir. Tell us about your tall friend with the strange forward-curved sword, and perhaps you'll get off on just a robbery charge."

Debtford's eyes widened at the description, but his lip curled in a sneer. "Ye don't know what ye're talking about. I tell you, I was the only one there, and even if I weren't I wouldn't rat. Ye want to charge anyone, ye can charge me."

"Very well," Holmes said with a languid shrug, "I'll catch him anyhow and you can both hang. Lestrade, if you will do the honors-?"

He faltered, as from his left came the creak of shifting wood, and in that moment he realized his mistake. Debtford's partner had, without his knowledge, come with him.

Holmes only had time to call Lestrade's name before the back-door of the building burst open and a dark blur shot out. A tall man it was, features obscured by hat, scarf, and ulster, and he snatched at Lestrade's wrist, pulling the revolver away from Debtford. Lestrade spun full around to engage this new opponent, while Debtford took the opportunity to capture Holmes' full attention.

Though neither amateur nor inspector were incompetent in the way of physical altercations, their opponents had them more than matched. Debtford alone was strong as his build suggested and had some skill in brawling that kept Holmes well occupied. Lestrade was not faring so well against his man, who ably deflected every attempted hit and struck back doubly hard. Lestrade had little choice but to fall back on his weapon.

The sharp crack of the revolver filled the air, the bullet catching squarely in the ulstered man's ribcage. Blood blossomed forth from the hole in the cloth. Such a wound would have - should have - stopped a man short.

The tall man did not even seem to notice. Nor when the trigger was pulled a second time, a second hole opening at the man's stomach. Heedless, he surged forth, seizing the stunned Lestrade and striking a sound blow to his crown. The inspector crumpled. The tall man drew from his coat a pistol of his own, taking aim at the struggle still ongoing. Holmes was begrudged to back down.

He was gestured to the stand of crates again, and the groaning Lestrade deposited ungently beside him.

"Thank god, Kessler! I thought you'd gone!" cried Debtford, taking up Lestrade's fallen pistol as he grinned at his companion. "What d'we do with 'em?"

Kessler pulled free his scarf, revealing a hard-lined face and eyes like chips of flint, bearing steady and cool into his prisoners. "Bind them," he instructed in a deep, breathless voice, producing a coil of rope from his coat. Debtford took the coil, but he hesitated in obeying, his gaze on the slowly-spreading stains of his companion's coat.

"Well? You're not badly hurt, are you?" Though his tone was impatient, there was a spark of concern in the look that Kessler threw to his companion.

"I'm fine, just a bruise or three. Wha' about you? I mean, that looks worse'n usual, an'..." Kessler gave him the weary look of one who was asked to explain something for the hundredth time. "Right then," Debtford muttered and set about lashing their prisoners.

At first Holmes attempted to struggle, but an impatient elbow to his gut effectively curtailed that. Once he had his breath back, he turned his attention instead to Lestrade. Blood streamed freely down the left side of the Inspector's face, a nasty laceration having opened where Kessler had struck him. Scalp wounds tended to bleed heavily, though. The wound itself was probably nothing to worry about, and for all his knowledge, Holmes hadn't the faintest idea of how to tell if he was concussed.

Debtford worked fast, and he'd finished with their bindings by the time Lestrade started to come to. The official's dark eyes fluttered open, blinked blearily a few times, focused on Kessler, blinked again, and stared. "I shot you!" Lestrade protested, sounding for all the world like a schoolchild complaining of an unfair ruling. "Twice!"

Kessler grimaced. "Yes, and I'm of a mind to return the favor. You know I'm going to be spitting blood for the next month because of you? Punctured a bloody lung."

"I could do it," Debtford offered, hovering at Kessler's elbow. "Lay it in with th' knife, make certain he remembers it." He seemed entirely too enthused at the prospect.

Kessler smiled, his free hand squeezing Debtford's shoulder. "Calm yourself, Josiah. We've got time. No one's coming after these two - that's not your style, is it, sir?" His smile widened as he turned to Holmes, baring his teeth like a wolf at a cornered hare. "I've met a dozen like you, showmen all, and always to your downfall. You thought that two would be enough to take down my friend, didn't you?"

Two! Holmes' expression remained calm, but inwardly he started. Watson was long overdue in his reappearance! That not even the gunshots had brought him out was surprising - it could only mean that Watson had crept in close, seen the predicament, and gone for help. At least the doctor would not suffer for his short-sightedness. As for the two of them... well, that remained to be seen, but their prospects were looking rather grim.

Holmes shifted closer to Lestrade, watching as their captors relaxed and began to converse between themselves.

"You should have told me about that letter, Josiah," Kessler admonished. "We're lucky I had a feeling you'd get into trouble."

"I know, James. But it only 'ad my name, an' I didn't want to trouble ye if it weren't anythin'..."

"So, of course, it _was_ something, and you were nearly arrested for the trouble. Then where would I be?"

Holmes hunched down and whispered, "I'll try to get us untied. Be ready to run."

"What about the doctor?" Lestrade whispered back.

"He must have gone for help."

"Unless he was worse off than he let on."

"Pessimism will not help this situation, thank you."

"Sorry."

Holmes' nimble fingers began working at the all-too-sturdy knots that Debtford had tied. Their captor's conversation, meanwhile, seemed to have turned.

"Shooting them and dumping them in the river," Kessler was saying as he idly twirled his revolver, "would certainly be the easiest route, but dreadfully dull. I think they ought to pay for frightening you that way, Josiah."

"Like what, James? Cut on 'em awhile? Put the fear a'God into whoever finds 'em?"

"Not a bad notion. Though we should avoid their faces - would hate for the warning to go unappreciated because no one knew who they were."

"Could just lop off their 'eads an' send 'em on to the Yard."

"Mmm," Kessler responded, and Holmes could not help but notice that the man seemed distracted, like he had heard something that was not apparent to anyone else. "Sorry?"

"Ye could lop off their 'eads and send 'em to the Yard, I said."

"Good idea," Kessler mused, turning away even as he said it. "No, no, it won't do..."

"James?"

Kessler turned back, a sudden agitation making his movements fast and sharp. He leveled his pistol at Lestrade. "On second thought, it might be best if we take them out fast. I'm beginning to dislike this area. We'll send their heads on later-"

"That's quite enough, James!"

Holmes visibly started as the familiar voice cut through the scene, far stronger than he could ever remember hearing it. Kessler, too, gave a jump at the voice, whipping about to face the man that stepped almost casually out of the shadows behind them. Watson balanced atop the wharf-wall with apparent ease, one arm folded behind his back, posture straight and head held high. His expression was one of total composure, a gambler's facade, haughty and unreadable. He held his pistol-arm straight out, but the weapon was trained on Debtford, even as his eyes locked on Kessler.

"Doctor Watson!" Lestrade cried in warning.

Kessler's face, meanwhile, went through a very remarkable few seconds in which it displayed surprise, recognition, amusement, and anger all in rapid succession before composing into a stony countenance. "Well, well, well," he said, "If it isn't good old Tommy. You're looking well."

Holmes and Lestrade traded equally confused glances.

"Let them go," said Watson. "They can do you no harm anyhow."

Kessler laughed, a bitter barking thing devoid of real humor. "Perhaps not me personally, no, but they have the means to put my friend here to the gallows. I know it's an unfamiliar concept to you, but _some_ of us actually have some sense of loyalty to our fellows."

Watson drew in a breath, a frown marring his mask, but he did not answer, instead stepping from the wharf-wall to a crate and from there to the ground. The movements were fluid and strong, betraying none of his previous signs of weakness or lingering injury.

Kessler held his ground, his steely eyes boring holes into Watson's. "I have to say, you were the last one I expected to see around here. Especially after what I did to Selkirk."

"Selkirk? You killed Selkirk?"

Kessler smirked. "Just three nights ago. I'd thought you'd have seen it - no? What happened, Tommy, you getting old?" His smirk widened as he found some obscure humor in the concept.

"I've changed, James."

"I'll say. Your little Scotland Yard friend, he called you... Watson? As in Dr John Watson? I saw your story in _Beeton's_*. Congratulations, your writing style has much improved - I didn't even recognize it. As for putting yourself up with a criminal detective, well, you always did have brass, at least."

"I assure you the arrangement was entirely coincidental."

"Hah! Tommy Murray never made a move in his life that wasn't planned to the letter."

"Thomas Murray is dead. I told you, I've changed. I left that life on the field at Maiwand."

"Ah, of course. Along with the body of the real Dr John Watson, I'll wager. Tell me, did you stab him in the back or did he see you coming?"

"Now see here!" Holmes leapt to his feet, shaking off the hand that Debtford laid on his shoulder to push him down. "I may not know what's transpired between the two of you, but I won't stand for these attacks on the good doctor's character."

Kessler's cold gaze snapped to him. "The _good_ doctor," he sneered, taking a step toward Holmes. "You have this one well-trained, Tommy." He pressed the barrel of his own pistol into Holmes' forehead, cocking the weapon meaningfully.

"Holmes!" Watson cried, genuine panic in his voice.

The tone intrigued Kessler, an ugly smirk curling his lips again as he turned back to Watson. "Well, well. Has the leopard truly changed its spots? Has Tommy Murray developed a soul after all?" The smile slipped into a contemptuous frown. "Only twenty-five years too late."

"James," Watson whispered, his composure gone in favor of outright pleading. "Your quarrel is with me. For God's sake, let them go!"

"_God's_ sake?" Kessler's frown only deepened, a wild light sparking in his eyes as he snarled. "Who are you to speak of God, _Hellequin_!" In a single motion, he threw aside his pistol and produced from his ulster a forward-curved, cleaver-like short blade - an indian panabas. He dove at Watson, swinging the sword, which rang shrilly as it was deflected by a sturdy cane.

Holmes slipped his loosened bonds, but Debtford moved into his way before he could rush to Watson's aid. Holmes threw a coil of rope around the muzzle of the gun, yanking it safely to one side and sending an ungentlemanly kick at his opponent's gut. Debtford caught it and shoved him. Holmes hit the ground hard, knocking the air from his lungs. It was only by Lestrade's intervention that he was not shot in that moment, as the policeman threw his own bonds around Debtford's neck and pulled them tight.

While the official kept Debtford occupied, Holmes spared a glance to see how his friend fared. It was clear from his sure, swift movements that Kessler was an experienced swordsman, but Watson held him back with an unprecedented skill of his own, all weakness forgotten as he deftly parried and dodged each blow. He did not land any of his own, though, not that Holmes could see it doing much good if he did. It was only a matter of time before Kessler overpowered him.

Lestrade grunted as Debtford drove an elbow into him to weaken his hold, and Holmes' attention was snatched back to his more immediate problem. Just as the man was throwing Lestrade off, Holmes leapt to his feet and grabbed Debtford's gun-arm, throwing a backhanded strike to his temple. Debtford stumbled but did not fall, and Holmes twisted his arm behind him.

"Lestrade, help Watson!"

"No!" Watson himself snapped at them. "Do not interfere!" He cried out as Kessler took advantage of his distraction, the blade laying into his shoulder and then again across his gut. He tumbled from the wharf-wall that their deadly dance had carried them onto, the cane clattering to the ground beside him. Kessler hopped down and kicked it away before he could snatch it back up.

Hard eyes stared down at their prone prey, his mouth set in a rigid line. "You know, I think that once I have finished with you, I _shall_ let your friends go," he said through his teeth. He smiled a nasty, promising smile as he raised the weapon above his head. "Do you remember our theatre days, Tommy? 'So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee.' Come now, Chiron, you know the words! 'Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, an if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe!' "

The words had a marked effect on Watson. His eyes widened, nostrils flared, cheeks flushed, lips trembled, all in rage. The blade swung in an executioner's chop. At the last second, Watson rolled, the weapon sinking into the wharf where his throat had just been. He returned with a vicious kick to Kessler's chest, forcing him to release the blade as he stumbled back. In a flash Watson was up and charged the man, catching him full-on with a rugby tackle. Kessler went down, and a straight left to his solar plexus kept him there.

Holmes and Lestrade together had managed to overpower Debtford, Lestrade knocking him unconscious with the butt of Kessler's revolver. Holmes looked up to see Watson yank the panabas out of the ground and advance on Kessler, who coughed and rolled onto his hands and knees.

"Watson!" Holmes cried, but his friend didn't seem to hear him.

He loomed over the prone Kessler, the blade shining in the lamp-light as it was raised high. "There can be only one," he whispered. The blade described a glowing arch, and with a sick, organic sound, Kessler's head parted from his shoulders.

For a long moment, there was silence. Holmes and Lestrade stood absolutely stunned, while Watson just tried to catch his breath. He still clenched the blade in a white-knuckled grip. Blood slipped lazily down its length, striking the cobblestones with a resounding _drip, drip_ that mixed with the sounds of the river. Then he straightened, his head rolling back and his eyes closing, and he raised his arms, like a bloody maestro waiting for his ovation.

Holmes took a half-step forward. "Stop!" Watson snapped out his free hand. "Stay back!"

The headless body began to crackle, light arcing across it in ways Holmes had only ever seen in a laboratory, and Lestrade in a stormy sky, surrounding the body in an aura of brilliant blue. The wind kicked up, whistling and shrieking and tearing at their clothes, as an invisible force lifted the body clear off the ground. Watson's eyes remained close, his expression expectant, almost serene. Then the building tension broke, and a blinding beam of energy arched from the body to Watson, striking directly into his heart. His entire form tensed and shuddered, eyes flew open, head whipped back, and a terrible cry ripped out of his throat as the light continued its assault. The wind whipped into a frenzied howl. Both lanterns and the one nearby window shattered.

And yet, through it all, Holmes found that he couldn't look away.

The energy subsided all at once, leaving the night dark and silent around them once more. Watson dropped to his knees, the blade clattering to the ground beside him. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and continued to shudder.

Lestrade jerked and gasped as Holmes' hand found his shoulder in the darkness. "It's just me," he whispered, his trembling voice betraying that even his unshakable nerves were in a state. "I think, perhaps, it would be best to learn more about this matter before making any... hasty judgments." He felt more than saw Lestrade's hesitant nod. "If you could deal with the situation here, and meet us back at Baker Street...?" Another nod. Holmes squeezed the official's shoulder. "Thank you, Lestrade."

"Just see you get him home," Lestrade told him, apparently finding his voice. "And keep him there."

Holmes nodded himself. He rose and went to where Watson still knelt, touching his shoulder gently, and was surprised when the man flinched away. "It's just me," he said again, "It's alright." Even more surprising was when Watson looked up at him, and in the starlight his blue eyes shone, wide and vulnerable and... frightened?

"Come on, old boy," Holmes said gently, "Lestrade will take care of things here. It's home for you."

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_*Technically STUD was not published until '87, 6 years after they started living together, but in this reality, Watson published it earlier._


	2. Reaction

**Part 2: Reaction**

**A/N: **_It's only fair to warn you that while I have seen the third and fourth Highlander movies, I'm mostly going off the first one and a little bit of information gleaned from watching Spoony's recent reviews. I haven't seen the series._

_Conner MacLeod does make a brief appearance in this chapter, so I've changed the category to 'crossover'.

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Mrs Hudson, and indeed most of the civilized world, was long abed by the time Inspector Lestrade arrived at Baker Street and quietly let himself in. He found Holmes pacing the sitting room amidst a haze of whatever noxious weed it was that he stuffed in his pipe. When the amateur did not acknowledge his presence, Lestrade took a seat anyway and waited.

After a time, Holmes flopped unceremoniously into his chair and sighed aloud. "Well, Lestrade?"

"I've put off the paperwork until I have a better idea what to put on it," said Lestrade, who stifled a yawn before he continued. "My story for now is that Debtford was the only one there, but managed to get in a good blow on the doctor, so you took him home while I took Debtford in. I cleaned all the blood and footprints from the scene, and the casings from my revolver. You may be called upon soon to investigate the mystery of a headless body - or bodiless head - dumped in the Thames, but that's your business."

"Why did you keep the blade?"

Lestrade was too tired to be surprised. He produced the panabas from his coat, the blade wrapped in a layer of bloodstained cloth. "Truth is, I wasn't sure what to do with it. And if it turns out..." He hesitated, turning the blade over in his hands. "That is, if..."

"If Watson's explanation doesn't illuminate the matter to our satisfaction, then it will be evidence against him."

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "Well... yes."

Holmes sighed again. "This morning I would have thought you mad for questioning the doctor's character. After tonight... I don't know what to think. May as well prepare for the worst."

Silence fell for a long minute, then Lestrade asked, "How... how is he?"

"Sleeping upstairs. He nearly nodded off while I was bandaging him. That... that light, whatever it was, must have taken a lot out of him."

"You really don't know what happened, do you?"

Holmes sent Lestrade a withering look. "Is it really such a shock?"

"Sort of, yes. I'm used to you knowing everything, and lording it over the rest of us besides. That something like... like _this_ should slip past you - he's your own flatmate!"

"I know that, Lestrade!" Holmes snapped. He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have spent every moment of the last few hours going over every memory of our acquaintance, but even now-" He trailed off suddenly, cocking his head to one side. Lestrade opened his mouth to inquire, but Holmes silenced him with a gesture. Then he leapt out of his chair, vaulted the settee, and darted to the door, barely keeping it from slamming into the desk when he yanked it open. "It will not do, trying to sneak out!" he snapped in a harsh stage-whisper. "I believe that Lestrade and I are due an explanation for to-night's events."

At length, Watson appeared in the doorway. Where on the wharf he had been uncharacteristically confident, now he was the opposite, head bowed and shoulders hunched in a neatly-framed picture of subdued resignation. In averting his eyes from Holmes, he turned toward Lestrade, and professional concern crossed his otherwise drawn features. "Have you received medical attention, Inspector?"

Lestrade wordlessly indicated the bandage on his temple. Watson nodded, but still lingered where he stood, visibly flinching when Holmes shut the door behind him. He only took a seat when Holmes bade him.

Holmes crossed to the gasogene, pouring brandy for all three of them before resuming his own seat. "Now, Watson-" He faltered, began again in a more hesitant tone. "I... must confess that I am rather at a loss. Whatever falsehoods you have told me have taken me in entirely. I have given you far too little credit in our time together."

"That was my intention, Mister Holmes," said Watson, with lacklustre intonation and lukewarm formality that seemed almost to negate the warmth of the fire. "I had rather hoped that it would remain so - I was getting comfortable in this new life."

"You say that as if you expect to leave it," said Holmes.

"I do," said Watson.

"Then you expect to be arrested?" Lestrade asked.

Watson shook his head. "No. Not arrested."

"You expect me to chase you out," said Holmes. At a nod from Watson, he continued, "I consider that outcome unlikely."

"You'll change your mind by the end of my story."

"You seem awfully certain of that. Shall we test the theory?"

Watson contemplated his brandy, pointedly not looking at either of his associates. Neither pressed him.

"I am," he finally said, "a consummate liar. But gentlemen, I swear to you that every word I say now is true. Whether you believe it or not, I shall leave to your good judgment. I... will understand if you do not. I only ask that you hold your questions, and do not interrupt my narrative until it is through. You do deserve the truth, bald and whole, but it... will not be easy for me, to recount the life that I left behind. I fear that if I am stopped, I may not have the will to continue."

"Of course," confirmed Lestrade, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

Holmes slid back, folding his hands over his snifter and letting his eyelids droop. "Pray, continue."

Watson took a deep breath.

"John Watson is not my christian name. Thomas Murray is. I am nearly sixty years of age. I am... an Immortal.

"Among my kind, I am young. I have met men hundreds - thousands, even - of years old. We do not die. We cannot be killed by conventional means. Our lives only end if our heads are cut from our necks, and then our... our energy, our life-force, flows into our killers - you saw it at work tonight. It is called the Quickening. And we live in this way until the Gathering, when we will all be drawn to the final event and we fight until there is only one left, and to this one goes the Prize. I do not know what it is - no one does. We just know that it is.

"I do not know why or how we are chosen, or if indeed there is any sense to it at all. I am given to believe that it is simply random, for I cannot otherwise justify my part in it." Though his tone had remained flat and lecturing, he now chuckled, hollow and without warmth. "Perhaps it was some cruel vagary of fate, a nasty little trick born of the Almighty's boredom. Certainly there never was a man _less_ deserving of such power.

"But I get ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

"I was found in Edinburgh in 1823, raised in the working-class among a number of foster-siblings. At an early age, I displayed an unusual intellect, wit, and charm, with potential for far more than what the lower-class life could offer me. At twelve I left home to join a traveling show.

"It was there that I first met James Karras - the man you met as Kessler tonight - though then I knew him as Jack Hanon. It was there also that I met Cyril Pengelly. Cyril was a stage-hand and an acrobat, small and graceful, with hooded gray eyes and messy hair that was nearly white despite his youth and energy. Cyril took me under his wing when first I joined, taught me to read and write, to build up and tear down the stage. He also taught me to pick pockets and cut purses when I mingled with the crowds, the best way to present my youth so as to escape consequence, and how to escape anyway when that failed me. Though I had no formal education, I learned quickly, eager for every lesson no matter the content. I understudied some of the actors, and in a few years was even given my own parts, becoming a minor star of their mobile stage. In this way I passed ten years of my life.

"We performed a night in Dùn Phàrlain, and in the morning were approached by uniformed officials. This was no rare thing, and the leader of the troupe was more than ready to 'clear up' whatever matter they brought, but they weren't there to chase us out, investigate a complaint, or chide us on some minor transgression.

"They were there for me.

"You see, I... was not a well man, and I don't mean in the... physical sense. I was weak of moral character, deficit in empathy for my fellow man, and rather given to malicious action for no other reason than my own amusement. And I was clever." He laughed again, this time rueful. "Oh, I was clever, in all the worst ways. While I was with the show, I made a habit to slip off into town and amuse myself - sometimes gambling or indulging in women, sometimes mugging or theft or vandalism, just because I could. Sometimes... three times, I killed. I only remember the first one, a man that I mugged at knife-point, and stabbed him when he struggled. When he opened his mouth to scream, I drew out the knife and slit his throat.

"Scottish law took years to catch up, but catch up it did, and I was hauled off to Aberdeen to be tried. Despite all my acting talent, I was found guilty. I was only twenty-three when I stood before the firing squad and was shot dead.

"And I curse the devil that I did not stay there.

"We Immortals are not born with our powers, you see. They only awaken upon our first death, which must be untimely and violent. The firing squad fulfilled every stipulation nicely. I died in the morning and awoke again in the night, to find James and Cyril watching over me.

"I was, as you might expect, rather disquieted by such sequence of events, but Cyril soothed my fears. Once I had calmed enough to listen, he set about explaining.

" 'How old would you say I am?' he asked me.

"Besides the snow-white hair, he didn't look a day over forty, and I said as much. He laughed, and told me that he was two-hundred and sixty three. Old enough to sense pre-Immortals like I had been. James, his protegé, was two and fifty.

"Cyril took me under his wing in much the same way he had in the show, except that now his teachings were on Immortality, on sword-play, and on the use and honing of our other power - cheating death is not our only gift, you see. We have a... a _sense_ of beings around us, of disposition, and movement. I took to these as I'd taken to all his teachings, and even at my fledgling stage I could predict a normal man's actions a vital second ahead.

"You can imagine, I think, the effect that such power would have on a man already given to moral bankruptcy. Unfortunately, Cyril and James were no better - Cyril taught us that our power made us inherently superior to the rest of the world. We were made to use that power, he said, to seize what we wanted, when we wanted it. Mortal laws could no longer touch us.

"Never were there men less deserving of such power, and I was by far the worst.

"It was my idea to form a gang, to bring mortals under our leadership so as to extend our power. We recruited and trained men, ruled them through fear and respect and the promise of riches. I was at the forefront - Cyril was my mentor, but I was a natural leader, and the men turned to me when decisions had to be made. James became my second in command. I became known in whispers as _Hellequin_, the Devil's Horseman, leader of the Wild Hunt, and together we tormented the Continent.

"No, I was not always the _paragon_ of virtue that you know, gentlemen. In fact, had things gone differently, I would be known to you only as an enemy - perhaps _the_ enemy, if I might allow myself the conceit. I am not proud to say that you cannot name a crime that I have not committed. Theft, arson, rape, blasphemy, treason, assault, murder - it's quite a list, I assure you, and the counts tally far higher than even I dare contemplate anymore. Our reign of terror went on for a decade, until finally, mercifully, it was brought to an end.

"I was returning from a night on the town on my own - we often traveled alone, we three, as unafraid of death as we had become - when I was stopped on the road by two men - two other Immortals, I found as I drew closer. They were unfamiliar to me, and yet, at the same time... we all know each other, in a way, once we've Awakened. I don't know how to explain it, except in our _sense_ of things.

"The one that approached me was known among our kind as the Highlander. Older even than Cyril by a century or more, he was - still is, I believe - considered one of the more dangerous of us, and was most certainly more powerful than me. The other was an African, and older still. I tried to smile and make nice, hoping to make an ally or to at least escape with my skin.

" 'You are the one they call Hellequin, leader of the Wild Hunt?' he asked me.

" 'I am,' I foolishly declared, puffing out my chest with pride.

"He and his companion exchanged glances and then laughed, deep, chilling, foreboding laughs. 'Very nice to meet you,' he said. 'Now you're going to die.' He drew a blade from his coat and leveled it at me, smiling, waiting for me to make the first move.

"I chuckled - high and nervous - and told him that I was unarmed. His African friend only laughed again and threw his own scimitar to me.

"I broke and ran. It was no use, though, the Highlander was faster than I and caught me before I'd even left the road.

" 'It's a little different, isn't it? Facing someone that can actually fight back,' he said - sneered, really. 'Pick up the sword,' he said, and he backed me up until I all but tripped over the blade. 'Come on, Hellequin, go out like a man.' I had no choice but to snatch up the blade and make some vain attempt to save my life. It was for naught - he beat me swiftly, knocked the unfamiliar weapon out of my hands in minutes, and a stab to my gut brought me to the ground.

"That pain awoke something in me - a realization, and as he raised his bastard sword for the execution, it was only solidified. I was not invincible, not a master of the world as I had been lead to believe. The Highlander was right. I was a coward and a bully, and now, faced with the possibility of real death, I was more deeply terrified than I had ever known possible. In my panic I cried out for him to wait, and to my surprise, he did.

" 'I'm not the one you want,' I told him, my plan already forming. 'I'm just a figurehead. You want the leader of the Wild Hunt, I can bring you to him.'

"He looked at me like something he'd stepped in, and made to kill me again.

" 'He's another Immortal!' I cried desperately. 'Much older - more powerful! Taught me everything I know!' This stayed his hand again.

" 'And what is the name of this older Immortal?' he asked.

" 'Pengelly. Cyril Pengelly. I can lead you to him - but you'll never find him without me!'

"The Highlander shared a disgusted look with his friend, but he sheathed his sword. 'Alright,' he agreed. 'Take us to him.'

"And I did. I lead them both back to our hidden encampment, and once they were inside, I ran again, while they were distracted by Cyril and James and the rest of the gang. I looked back only once, and I saw them all locked in combat - Cyril and the Highlander, James and the Moor, the mortal gang pressing around them and then scattering as they realized how ineffectual their little guns were. I looked back just in time to see the Highlander's sword cut through Cyril's neck, just in time to see him fall. James saw, too, and he let out the most terrible, anguished cry. His head whipped around, somehow finding me in amidst the chaos, and his blazing eyes bored accusations into my skull. I turned my back and made good my escape.

"Listless and weary, unhappy with the revelations I had made about my own character, I drifted for a time, my only aim to escape a phantom that seemed to jump from every stray shadow. Eventually I returned to Edinburgh and took up at the medical school, for no real reason other than that it was there when I finally grew tired of the stress of wandering. The coursework was interesting and demanding, and it kept my mind occupied, diverting me from thoughts of pursuers or of my own self-doubts.

"It wasn't to last, though. I was near to finishing my third year when James caught up to me, somehow having escaped the clutches of the African.

"He appeared to me at nightfall, sitting in my room, and when I entered he just asked, 'Why'?

"I could not answer him. What would I say? Admit that I was a coward? That I was so unnerved by the thought of death that I replaced my own neck with that of the man who had taken me in, who was nothing short of a father to us both? Maybe I should have. He deserved the truth. But I again feared for my own hide, and fear stilled my tongue.

"I ran again, and again barely escaped, though James hounded me for months across the Continent, always just half a step behind. Finally, just to escape him, I enlisted in Her Majesty's forces, and due to my meager medical training was made orderly to the surgeons of the Berkshire infantry.

"It was there that I met the real Doctor John Watson, a surgeon that was assigned to us after we'd already broken through enemy lines. I was less than impressed - he was young, with brown hair and a neat moustache, and he said not a word to me on our first meeting, just looked me up and down, nodded in greeting, and walked away. He kept to himself thereafter - indeed, one might have thought him a mute but for the occasional 'yes, sir' to the officers - and as consequence made few friends in the regiment. That part of him I liked, for I had no interest in the fireside chatter that all-too-often turned to homesick anecdotes about farms and families and waiting fiancées and lovers.

"Then we came to battle, and I found a whole other side to the young doctor. As the wounded came in he barked out orders, judging each arrival with a keen, quick eye, judging them by urgency and nothing more. Officer and enlisted, Indian and English, all were equal in his eyes but for their wounds, and he treated them with care and efficiency. He remained at post all through the morning and long into the night, long after the battle had drawn to a close, just walking around the tent and attending, providing what comforts he could now that the urgency was lessened. I even found him standing by the side of a bed, holding a man's hand and just murmuring soothing nothings until the patient slipped into sleep. Only when the last casualty had been loaded back to Candahar did he finally succumb to his own exhaustion, and that night I know that he slept like the dead.

"Apparently he liked what he had seen of me, as well, for no sooner had he woken than he requested that I be assigned to him specifically. That was the extent of his speaking, though, for in the lull he returned to his withdrawn way, ignored most conversation and answered thanks with merely a raised brow and a nod. That night I came to sit by him, and he looked at me, raising his brow. When I made no effort to speak, he smiled. We smoked there, in silence, for the whole of the night - and the next night, and the next. Our second battle together came, and I watched as he repeated his performance, changing again into the expedient professional, and then the tender caregiver.

"The next night, as we sat again by the fire, he spoke to me. He asked - of all things - he asked if I thought he was strange.

"I answered with the truth, and that was, no. I didn't find him strange, so much as perplexing.

"He laughed - for the first time I had ever heard - and asked me why.

"I thought for awhile, and eventually said, 'Because you are the exact opposite of everyone I've ever known. You have such capacity for care and warmth, and yet you shun contact except when the men are wounded. You could be dear friends with every man here if only you gave them a 'hello' and 'good morning' once in awhile. Instead you let them dislike and disparage you, until their lives are in your hands.'

"And he said, 'I don't need to be friends with every man. It would be a pain, anyhow. They aren't my business until they're hurt.'

"I had no answer to that, so we fell into silence once more. Not until the next night did I think of what to say, and I ventured to ask, 'Why do you do this, then? Why save men whose lives you have no interest in?'

"He took a time in answering, and when he did, just said, 'Because I want to. They don't have to be good men, or funny men, or friendly. They don't have to like me, and I don't have to like them. What matters is that they are there, and they deserve a chance.'

"Carefully, I asked, 'Even if they have committed some unforgivable sin?'

" 'I'm in the business of saving lives, not souls,' he said, and he turned and regarded me with that keen gaze of his. 'It's not my place to pass forgiveness. That's for men to earn for themselves - and so long as they still draw breath, they have a chance for it.'

"So utterly pertinent were his words that I was struck speechless. He smiled and excused himself for the night, leaving me to wonder if he'd found out about my past, and how, and if he would come to his senses in the night and realize that I was despicable and not worth his second-chance philosophy. The thoughts nagged at me all night, but I never had a chance to press him further, for the next morning we had struck out for fateful Maiwand, and this time we found ourselves on the field itself. With men and horses screaming around us, mortars whistling down and rifles roaring, we did what we could to save the fallen, despite too few supplies and too many wounded. I already wrote of how a Jezail bullet shattered my shoulder, and of the mortar shrapnel that tore into my leg. It was Watson that shot the Ghazi who would have finished the job, dressed my wound there on the battlefield, wrapped me in his own coat - for I had torn mine into makeshift bandages long before - and brought me back to British lines. He told me I would be alright, and then he turned away, as if to march straight back onto the battlefield. I have no doubt that he did just that.

"That was the last time I ever saw him.

"The next months progressed as I wrote - enteric fever and all - with one exception. Wrapped as I was in Watson's coat - and bearing something of a resemblance, if my more reddish hair were ignored - I was assumed to _be_ Watson, and by the time I was in any state to refute it, everyone already had it firmly in their heads. Though I searched for news of the real man, it was in vain, and the only thing close to it that I could find was a singular name among the fatalities - _Murray, Thomas_.

"Sometimes I wonder just how it happened, and wish I could have been there to see. I imagine him shot a dozen times by a dozen Ghazi rifles - and he shoots them right back down and keeps going, keeps on until the retreat is called, until the men are all back at Kushk-i-Nakhud, and only when they're all in safe hands does he finally fall, just collapses without pomp and ceremony and is buried right along with the rest. Somehow I think it's the sort of thing he'd have wanted.

"So he was dead, and so, in effect, was I. I didn't have to run anymore. And without that to guide me, I found myself again drifting, without purpose, until the tides of old Britain carried me to London, and I found myself with a razor in hand, staring at my wretched face in the mirror of a fine hotel where I was registered under his name. I had finally set about shaving the beard-growth from my months of sickness, and though my cheeks were bare, I had paused at my upper lip. It may sound strange, but it was there, staring in the mirror at this strip of hair, that I found my purpose.

"With my moustache groomed, a touch of make-up, and a hat to cover my reddish hair, it was no longer the coward Thomas Murray that looked back at me from the mirror, but John Watson. I had already taken up his name, the least that I could do was try to do it service - to take my second chance and make all that I could out of it. Though I was not yet sure how, I resolved that so long as I still drew breath, I would pay tenfold for every one of my sins, and more, if circumstances permitted.

"That very day, someone saw my disguise, and recognized me for the man I was pretending to be. I improvised my way through lunch with Stamford - and through him, I met you.

"For me to take rooms with such an observant man must seem foolhardy, but from the first moment I met you I could not have said no - you were so deucedly full of life, so straightforward and honest, and in small ways, so much like the real Watson that at times it hurt to even be near you. I had to agree.

"When I went with you on that first case, that's when I knew for certain I'd made the right decision, for it was you that gave me the how. Here, at your side, I could help set right what I'd done wrong, by aiding in the capture of men like the one I had once been. I even hoped to set up a practice, eventually, so that I might save lives as well as avenge them. As time went on I relaxed my guard. I used less and less of the make-up, until I gave it up completely - foolishly believing that I had finally left Murray behind.

"Until tonight... until I recognized the Immortal that we were coming to, and was seized by that old, terrible fear... I... I almost ran again. I almost left you both to die, simply because I was too much of a coward to face my comeuppance."

The room fell silent.

Dawn had broken while the doctor's story unfolded, pale rays peering through the smoke that curled listlessly from the cigarette dangling in the doctor's fingers. He had migrated to the bow windows, where he watched the first trickles of sleepy-eyed morning traffic make their way past. The other two remained fixed in their seats, utterly stupefied.

Eventually Holmes took a deep breath, rolling his long-cold pipe between shaking hands. "That's... that's quite a remarkable story," he said.

"Yes," the doctor said gravely. "Yes, it is."

After another moment, Holmes rose and set about repacking the pipe. "What was it," he asked, tentatively, "that James said to you, back on the docks?"

The doctor's voice was flat as he recalled the words. " 'So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, an if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.' _Titus Andronicus_, act five, scene one, the brothers Demetrius and Chiron mock Lavinia after ravishing her and cutting off her hands and tongue so she could not reveal her tormentors." He took a draught from his cigarette and then stubbed it out. "I played Chiron."

Holmes' already pallid countenance paled further.

"That- that was meant as a threat?" said Lestrade. Watson nodded again, and Lestrade's color followed Holmes'. Silence again descended over the room, cloying and uncomfortable.

The doctor broke it with a sigh and rose, keeping his gaze to the carpet. "The first train is in an hour," he said. "I'll be gone in half."

Holmes' eyes went wide. "What? No! I absolutely forbid it!"

"Holmes-"

"Absolutely not, and that's final."

"I don't think you understand..."

It was Lestrade that answered. "No, Doctor, I think you've got that one backward." He rose and marched over, looking up into Watson's surprised blue eyes. "Whatever your name is - whatever may lie in your past - you are, in my experience, the most decent and noble man that I have ever had the privilege of knowing. I have never had reason to doubt that, until tonight - and after tonight, I still feel the same. We can't all be born saints, Doctor - we all make mistakes, even Mister Holmes here - but it's what we do to fix them that counts."

"Well-said, Inspector," Holmes chimed, finally lighting his pipe before he joined them by the window. "And may I add that I can think of no more worthy a candidate for a second chance. I would be nothing short of honoured to keep you by my side, Doctor, and to further your purpose in whatever way I can."

"But I- I almost abandoned you," the doctor protested. "I'm not-"

"But you didn't. You were afraid, yes. Fear is natural, dear boy. He was older, stronger, and bore a rather deep grudge. You overcame that - and just in time, too. No, I won't hear of you leaving, not a word! I've just gotten used to having you around."

That finally brought a smile to the doctor's face, his blue eyes shining. "I... I-I don't know what to say," he said, his voice choked with barely-repressed emotion. "But... thank you. Thank you both."

"Of course. Besides, these abilities of yours might prove quite handy in-" said Holmes, trailing into a not-quite stifled yawn. "Ah, but it's been a long night for all of us. Now that's all settled, I propose we all turn in for a few hours. Inspector, you're welcome to the settee. You had best still be here when we wake up, Doctor - by the by, what name would you prefer we call you?"

"I've grown rather fond of 'Watson'."

"Well, then, Watson you shall continue to be. I'm sure your namesake is glad to know his name is being put to good use."

Watson smiled all the way back to his bed.


End file.
